


Leave Me in the Looking Glass

by druxykexy



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, feel good, moderate pining, old married spirk, post TMP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/druxykexy/pseuds/druxykexy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock leaves the Enterprise, intent on undergoing the Kolinahr, only to wake up in an unknown location beside a sleeping Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave Me in the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plaidshirtjimkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaidshirtjimkirk/gifts).



Spock did not recognize the mattress beneath him. It resembled his one from the Enterprise, but it was not the same. Although even if it had been, it would be no less strange for that was no longer a station he held.

He had been en route to Gol. He had stepped onto the transporter pad, endured the standard flash of disorientation, but then found himself here. He was not on Vulcan, or any planet for that matter. He could hear the gentle thrum of a starship’s engines that was similar to, but not the same as, those of the Enterprise. He was also aware of another sound, a familiar breathing pattern in the bed beside him.

Spock sat up. The sleeping clothes he wore were unfamiliar. Intricate embroidery stood out stark against the plush black of the sleeves and hemlines. The outfit included a hat and socks, and while its warmth was welcome in the cool temperature of the room, it was not something he would have chosen for himself.

He shifted his focus to Jim—to his ex-captain.

Spock had not informed Jim of where he was going or why when he left. He had felt guilt over this, but had known that it would be erased, along with all his other emotions, during the Kolinahr. He had not intended to see Jim until the trials were complete—if he ever saw him again at all. He was not prepared for this confrontation.

It was impossible to predict what Jim’s reaction would be to seeing who was with him when he awoke. Despite Jim’s presence and the circumstances under which they had parted, Spock did not suspect Jim was involved with his abduction. It was more likely that he was a victim as well.

Spock lifted his hand, his fingers ghosting over the relaxed line of Jim’s jaw, across his brow, skirting his psi points, before moving on to—

Something was wrong with Jim’s hair.

Spock pulled his hand back, looking closer. It was not an illusion brought on by the dim lighting. His hair was darker, shorter, and more tightly curled.

It was not uncommon for humans to alter their appearance, particularly during times of change, but Spock was not satisfied with that as an answer.

Spock slipped from the bed, noting the textured soles of his socks for increased traction as he began his search of the room. It was set up much like his quarters had been on the Enterprise, only larger and with more beige. The sleeping area was minimally furnished, containing only the bed, a small dresser, and a few built-in shelves. Antique, paper books were on display—as was a Vulcan lute.

Spock lifted it from its place on the wall, turning it over in his hands. It was undeniably his. He recognized the grain of the wood, the weight of it in his hands, and the small imperfections it had amassed—although there seemed to be a few more scratches than he remembered. It seemed unlikely—although not unimaginable—that whoever was responsible for his capture would have made the effort to transport not only him but some of his belongings as well.

When playing music, Spock had never achieved the meditative peace that other Vulcans did. Instead he had _felt_ things—things that were better kept to himself.

The nature of what was present was highly suspect. To be on-board a starship again, with a room so like his own, and to have Jim beside him again…

It was possible that this was an illusion. That he had reached Gol some time ago and was being presented with things—desires—to tempt him. That this was a test to see if these items still held power over his unguarded mind.

Spock remembered what he had felt looking at Jim’s sleeping form and the thoughts he had failed to suppress—thoughts that should not have been there at all.

Seeking confirmation of his theory, Spock replaced the lute and opened the top left dresser drawer.

Inside, however, was not the familiar blue of his uniform, but something paler, shinier, and considerably more elastic. Frowning, he moved to the drawer beneath it, but it held white shirts and pants that were no more recognizable than the others.

It was unlikely then, that this was a test, or at least, not one of his desires.

There was no point in speculating without further data, and so he switched his focus to the drawers on the right side of the dresser. In the top one he found an assortment of small boxes and a few cases for protecting important hard copies of documents, photographs, and similar items. Lifting the lid on one of the boxes, Spock was startled to discover metal pins that resembled Starfleet insignia. They were close in size to the ones he had worn on dress uniforms, but the materials and design had been altered.

Spock frowned down at them. He could think of only one explanation for why the design of the Starfleet insignia would be different—for why he was on a ship that merely resembled the Enterprise with a captain whose hair was dark and tightly curled. He was no longer in his own reality, but some other mirror universe.

When a malfunction of the transporters had sent Jim to such a universe, the crew he had encountered there had only superficially resembled the ones from their own. The harsher circumstances of their existence had shaped them into ruthless, cunning individuals.

Spock glanced over at the bed, but the James Kirk there was still beneath the covers. It was fortunate that Spock had woken up with enough time to prepare before he was required to interact with anyone. Now that he was aware of the danger, he would be able to play along until he knew the exact nature and disposition of the crew as he searched for a way home.

More cautious now, Spock opened one of the document holders.

And promptly dropped it again.

A lengthy moment passed before he was able to make a second attempt. Taking a meditative breath, he returned his fingers to the photograph.

It was just as unsettling to look at as before—as if his most forbidden thoughts had been imprinted on film. In the picture Jim stood with one arm slung around Spock’s shoulder and the other pressed to his cheek, turning Spock’s face toward him as he moved in close. And while that display was shocking enough, it was insignificant when compared to the embarrassing portrayal of sentiment he found on his own face. He was _smiling_.

It was not quite as wide or as seductive as Jim’s, but it was clearly just as welcoming. Apparently in this universe, not only did he not complete the Kolinahr, but he allowed himself an even greater freedom of emotion.

Spock also suspected that the affection this Spock expressed toward Jim went beyond the single kiss they had shared in his own. The one before Jim had announced that he was being promoted to admiral—but planned to turn it down to stay with Spock.

Had this Jim said the same thing to the Spock in this universe? Only had this Spock been unable to resist the pull of having Jim as a lover, despite the sacrifices Jim would have to make to do so? Had he stayed?

Spock heard a loud exhale from the bed, followed by the sound of the covers rustling.

He turned to see Jim push himself up on one elbow. When his eyes located Spock he smiled.

It was a particularly affectionate smile, and Spock realized that it might be more complicated than he had anticipated to play the part of a lover, especially one that was emotionally expressive, when his beloved so closely resembled his own Jim.

“Good morning, Mister Spock.” The warmth in his voice sounded exactly like his Jim.

“Good morning—” Spock hid a calming breath with a nod of his head. “Jim.”

Jim swung out of bed. He wore only his boxers and a shirt that was open down the front and did not seem concerned about the casual display of skin.

“Do we have time for a shower, or did I oversleep?” Jim glanced at the clock, sparing Spock the difficulty of trying to predict their schedule. “Damn, I did. Why didn’t you wake me?” He moved past Spock, retrieving a white V-neck shirt from the dresser.

“My apologies, Captain, I—”

Jim’s head emerged from the top of the V-neck, and he brushed his lips against Spock’s. “I was joking.”

A blend of desire, amusement and something Spock could not identify transferred through the touch, and Spock made a quick, involuntary, intake of breath.

Jim’s eyes snapped up to Spock’s and after a moment they narrowed. “Are you feeling alright? The backlash could have affected you more than you initially thought.”

Spock’s mouth tugged downward and he remained silent, uncertain what Jim was referring to.

Jim placed his wrist on Spock’s forehead. “You feel about where you’re supposed to be.” He stepped back and held Spock at arm’s length as he scanned him up and down. “Any particular reason why you’re shielding from me?”

Shielding? There would be no reason for Jim to expect regular access to his mind, unless—

Unless they were bondmates.

“I am perfectly well,” Spock answered, quickly, to conceal his shock. “Other than some minor disorientation that has mostly passed, I am unaffected. But I would prefer to restrict the thoughts in my head to my own until I am fully recovered.”

Jim did not look entirely convinced, but after a moment he exhaled, shaking his head. “Alright, let’s have breakfast. Maybe you’ll feel more like yourself by the end of it.”

Spock considered that outcome to be unlikely.

“Have a seat.” Jim waived him toward a chair.

Spock did what Jim requested, even though he was not in the habit of taking breakfast. It would be better to submit to one than risk arousing further suspicions.

Jim returned with a tray that contained two beverages and a single plate, and Spock was relieved when he was given only one of the former. He nodded his thanks and raised the vessel to sniff at the aroma. It was tea, a common variety native to Vulcan, but one that the synthesizers on the Enterprise had never been able to recreate satisfactorily. He took a sip, closing his eyes closed in pleasure as the flavor passed his palate.

“That is exactly the expression I had in mind when I spent fifteen hours programming that into the data systems.”

Spock’s eyes snapped open. “You did this?”

“Well,” Jim gave him a lopsided smile that was somehow just as proud as a full one. “Scotty helped. And M’Benga taste-tested the samples since he’d tried it before. Oh, and most of them, he assured me, left much to be desired.”

Spock looked down into the pale liquid, giving himself a moment to process his reaction.

Jim had made him tea—had made it possible for him to have the tea whenever he wished—solely to please him.

This was not like the cruel and savage mirror universe they had previously encountered.

This was a utopia.

But the tea was not for him. It was for his counterpart, and it was imperative that he return them to each other as quickly as possible. Before this one offered any more temptation for him to stay.

Spock took another slow sip.

 

#

 

For a moment Spock thought engineering was unmanned, that perhaps, unlike his own, the system in this universe was fully automated. But then he saw a familiar bulk moving behind the console.

“Mister Scott,” Spock said, announcing his presence.

The sound of something small and metal being lost inside the open panel was followed by an undignified curse. An instant later Scotty had regained his feet and stood facing him.

“Mister Spock—you’ve got to give some warning before you go sneaking up on a fellow like that.”

“If stealth had been my intent, a warning would have run contrary to my objective.” Spock folded his hands behind his back, resisting the urge to pick at the fabric of his too-bright uniform.

“Aye.” Scotty rubbed the back of his head, his expression the same mix of earnestness and discomfort he had often had in Spock’s universe. “Was there something I could help you with?”

Spock raised his chin in what he hoped would appear to be steady confidence. “I am not the Spock you are familiar with. I am from a mirror universe much like, but not the same, as your own. I believe the exchange was the result of a transporter malfunction.”

There was a long moment where Scotty’s mouth was open and yet no sound was emitted. It was typical of the human to be inefficient with anything outside his area of expertise.

Spock repressed a sigh. “Let me reassure you by stating that, despite my origins, I mean you and your ship no harm. I seek only your assistance in returning to my own universe.”

“Are you feeling well, Mister Spock?” Scotty asked cautiously. “You aren’t sounding like your usual self.”

“Since my ‘usual self’ is adrift in an alternate reality that is hardly surprising.”

“I’m going to call the captain. He’ll know how to get this sorted out, you’ll see—”

“No.” While it was likely that Jim would be able to offer assistance, Spock did not want to cause him worry over his bondmate unless it was necessary. He also did not want, if he were honest, to see the affection in Jim’s eyes change to distrust.

“Alright.” Scotty nodded, his eyes darting to the console. “Then I won’t call the captain.”

Instead he called McCoy.

 

#

 

It was remarkable, Spock thought as he examined the ceiling of sickbay, how someone who spent his life in space could be so unwilling to consider extraordinary possibilities.

“I told you,” McCoy said, adjusting his scanner, “that you weren’t ready to be cleared for duty. You should have come to me the moment you realized you were feeling unwell.”

“If I were experiencing an illness, then I would have consulted you, Doctor. However, as the matter concerned physics, I considered it more fitting to contact an engineer.” For what good that had done.

“Spock…” McCoy shook his head. “You said yourself—not that you remember—that the procedure was likely to unscramble some things up here.” He tapped the side of his head.

“I highly doubt, Doctor, that those were my exact words.”

“Oh, you want exact words? Well I happen to—”

“What’s going on?” Jim demanded as he strode through sickbay’s doors. “Why wasn’t I informed there was an issue with Spock?”

“Now, take it easy, Jim.” McCoy raised his hands placatingly.

“Don’t give me that.” Jim brushed him out of the way and stood looking down at Spock, his expression grim. “I heard what you told Scotty, but now I want to hear it from you.”

Spock started to speak but Jim waived him silent.

“Not like that.” Jim tapped the side of his head much like McCoy had a moment before, although for a very different purpose. “Un-shield.”

“Captain—”

“ _Now_.”

Spock looked at him solemnly. “Experiencing mental contact with one who is a copy of your bondmate, but without the same experiences and connection would be, at the least, discomfiting. At the worst, it could cause lasting—”

“It’ll be alright. Now scoot over.” Jim made a shooing motion. “You’re hogging the biobed.”

Spock blinked at him. And before he could voice an argument it was already too late, Jim was lying beside him.

The experience felt more natural than he expected, and he noted how relaxed Jim seemed—and how easily he slid his hand into Spock’s.

Spock would miss this. Once he returned home the Kolinahr would be his only hope. Because he would never be able to forget what it was like to have this touch.

“Trust me, Spock.” Jim gave him a small smile that was oddly reassuring for its size. “I can handle this.”

Spock hesitated for a moment. Then he lowered his shields.

And as expected, as Jim’s consciousness flowed into his, the first the first emotion he felt was dismay.

_Not at who you are_. Jim’s mind said. _At what you’ve been going through, without anyone to help you._

_I am not who you think I am._

He felt only warmth from Jim. _I’ll be the judge of that._

Spock focused on where their bodies met, strengthening the link to further open his mind to Jim. A direct meld would have been more effective, but this should be enough.

As Jim moved deeper, the undercurrent of sadness did not diminish, but oddly, neither did his love, even after seeing Spock for who he was.

And for the first time since waking, Spock began to question if it was his mind, and not body, that had become adrift.

Something Jim touched triggered a spark of amusement.

_A utopia, huh?_ Jim said.

Spock pushed away his embarrassment, even though it was too late to conceal it from Jim. _Your universe does have its merits._

_Let’s get you fixed so you can see that it’s yours too._

As Spock’s focus shifted to the outside world he felt Jim’s mind move away, although a part of his comforting presence remained behind.

Jim gently squeezed Spock’s hand before he turned to face McCoy.

“Bones, I’d like to speak to you in your office for a moment.”

McCoy shook his head. “There’s something I need to say first. According to my data, the backlash appears to have leached almost all of a vital mineral from his system. He’s undergoing an extreme deficiency and it’s affecting his cognitive systems, primarily his memory.”

Spock didn’t bother to repress his frown.

“Is it reversible?” Jim asked.

McCoy’s expression became sympathetic. “I think so. I’ve created an infusion, and once his body has time to process it, he’ll be as right as rain. Or as right as rain on Vulcan, anyway.”

Spock repressed both a cringe and the urge to point out the illogic in that statement.

“How long will his recovery take?”

“Well, with his metabolism I can’t be sure, but I would estimate…thirty minutes?”

It was difficult to believe that his condition could be entirely internal, but as he took in the hope on Jim’s face, he decided he would submit to the treatment regardless.

Spock nodded his consent, and McCoy started to prepare him to receive the infusion.

Jim made no move to leave the biobed, and Spock found that he was not displeased with the arrangement. He was even less displeased when the treatment began and McCoy left so he could recover in relative privacy.

It only took a few minutes for the first of Spock’s memories to return, and when he told Jim of this, he could feel his relief rolling off of his skin as much as he could see it in his smile.

The memories did not arrive chronologically, but in phases. Meaningless details were first, such as numerous small repairs he had made, some trivial interactions, and even the scent and shine of a freshly cleaned desk.

The next wave was larger and more intrusive, experiences that he would not have thought possible to forget. The decommissioning of the Enterprise NC1701. The barrenness of V’Ger. His failure to complete the Kolinahr. Jim’s response when he returned—and the way Spock had rebuffed him.

Spock glanced at Jim, and he found he was being intensely watched.

“I was cold to you when I returned from Gol,” Spock said.

Jim shrugged, but the tension in his shoulders suggested he was far from indifferent. “At least you came back.”

“For two point eight Terran years, you suffered—”

“That was long ago.”

Spock’s felt his features pull into a slight frown. “I have not regained the memories of all that I have done to you, but what I do remember is beyond what you should be capable of forgiving.”

Jim gathered Spock’s hand between his own. “I was hardly innocent for my part. Besides…” Jim pressed his mouth to Spock’s knuckles and his breath fanned warm across his skin. “You’ve done more than enough to make it up to me.”

Spock doubted that was possible, but rather than debate what he could only half recall, he reclined further into the mattress. He did not remove his hand from Jim’s.

The next memory was shortly after he had returned to the Enterprise. Jim had been lost on a planet that was supposed to have been safe. He was eventually recovered, and was mostly unharmed, but the worry had spurred Spock into insisting that Jim retain his position as admiral and return to Earth.

Jim had not agreed, and the conversation that followed had been of a distressing nature. Words were exchanged that had built up over the years of their separation.

It was precisely the kind of recollection Spock had dreaded, and he was displeased with the thought that there was no way to predict how many more he would have to endure.

But the next memory followed immediately after the disagreement. Jim had come to him, unwilling to let his temper cause another rift between them, and Spock had found himself moved—and unusually willing to concede on an issue he felt strongly about. Later they would work out the details of a compromise, but in that moment they had sought to repair the damage between them through a more intimate method. With Jim’s mouth on his, and a hand on his hip, Spock had discovered just how willing he was to express his devotion while sprawled across a freshly cleaned desk.

Warmth spread out from the tops of his cheekbones to the tips of his ears.

“I guess I can’t find out”—Jim hovered his fingers over his meld points—“what it is you’re remembering right now. At least, not yet.”

Spock forced the blood flow to recede from the telltale capillaries. “It would be preferable to wait.”

Jim grinned, but tactfully, he made no further inquiry.

They had bonded soon after their reconciliation. They shared Jim’s cabin, because it was larger, and Jim had taken to making tea along with his coffee each morning so he and Spock could consume it together. He had done so for more than a year.

The sleep clothes Spock had awoken in were a gift from Jim. Even though Spock had been unwilling to display his discomfort in the cooler temperature of the shared cabin, Jim had known anyway and sought to increase his comfort.

Jim had joked that it was to escape cool Vulcan feet, but Spock had never noticed him pull away from his touch.

“Is something wrong?” Jim asked.

Spock was uncertain what in his expression had given Jim that impression. “I am merely appreciative of the clothing you procured for me to sleep in.”

“What?”

“While not entirely what I would have chosen, they are ideal for my needs.”

Jim was laughing.

Spock’s brow furrowed. “I fail to see—”

“That’s not what you said when I gave them to you. You insisted that sleep clothes were illogical—an additional set of clothing to be washed when Vulcan’s don’t get their clothing dirty with sweat during the minimal time they sleep—”

It was all Spock could do not to wince.

“But,” Jim continued, “they are warm, and I think you secretly like that _I like_ how you look in them. Black has always suited you, and I wanted something I wouldn’t be too worried about messing up.”

This time Spock lost the war with his capillaries. “Jim.”

“So really, it was a selfish gift on my part. I’ll have to do better in the future.”

“I hardly think that could be true about your attempts to keep me warm.”

Jim grinned, tilting his head so that rise of his eyebrow was more substantial. “In that case then, I will do everything in my power to keep you warm.”

Spock’s hand slid away from Jim’s just enough to slide back together, fingertip to fingertip.

 Jim sucked in his breath and he leaned over to touch his lips to Spock’s temple.

Spock was certain that he was where he was intended to be.

Because the utopia was his.

**Author's Note:**

> Rowanbaines made art for this story! It can be found [here.](http://rowan-baines.tumblr.com/post/104034173176/for-druxykexys-wonderful-story-leave-me-in-the)
> 
> Thank you [Plaidshirtjimkirk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Plaidshirtjimkirk) for beta reading and for inspiring me to write OMS in the first place! Thank you [RowanBaines](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanBaines) for beta reading AND making art!


End file.
